


Tremble For My Beloved

by Bouncey



Series: To Carry Your Marks [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Could Geralt Mope Any Harder? Probably., Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel and Lambert are there for literally one scene, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Happy Ending, Jaskier is the Most Optimistic Man Alive, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: It seemed to be a fair trade for average people. If someone was hurt enough to be scarred, a mark appeared in the same place on the body of their Beloved. If your scars matched another person's marks, it was a sign from the universe that you were meant to be together.Which is why Julian’s parents were so concerned.Down his tiny chest, across his legs, and all over his arms were minuscule yellow flowers. Dandelions littered his fragile body from head to toe in various clumps and lines, places where teeth had pierced or swords had sliced into his Beloved. Places where talons had broken through skin and left raised tissue behind. On the day of his birth, Julian Alfred Pankratz was already covered in another's marks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: To Carry Your Marks [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807651
Comments: 47
Kudos: 1505





	Tremble For My Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Oops I wrote a oneshot when I should have been working on Thomas the Rhymer. Oh well. I'm not behind on that either so it's fine, right?
> 
> (Title taken from "Tremble For My Beloved" by Collective Soul)

Julian’s mother had a slim green vine along the outside of her left thigh that corresponded to the scar on his father’s leg where he’d once been injured during battle. His father had a small sprinkling of ice-white stars above his left brow where the Countess had once been cut by a stray pair of trimming shears. It seemed to be a fair trade for average people. If someone was hurt enough to be scarred, a mark appeared in the same place on their Beloved. 

Which is why Julian’s parents were so concerned. 

The day Countess Pankratz discovered her pregnancy had been a joyous one all around. Drinks were shared with the servants. The horses were each given a bag of apples to enjoy. Castle Pankratz became a lively and beautiful place to live for nine months. The Viscount and Countess had been lucky enough to find each other and fall in love. Their home was full of happiness and they looked forward to raising their son together. They looked forward to helping him find his own Beloved. 

Until Julian was born.

Until they saw his skin. 

The baby came out of his mother wailing like any other baby. His hair was messy and thin like any other baby’s. His birthing cord was attached like any other baby’s. He had all of his fingers and toes, thank goodness. Despite their overwhelming happiness at his safe delivery, there was something slightly _wrong_ about the child. The nursemaid cleaned the birthing blood away in a desperate attempt to shed some light on the situation but the old woman only made it worse. Once they could see beneath the mess, the couple knew that their son had been cursed. 

Down his tiny chest, across his legs, and all over his arms were minuscule yellow flowers _._ Dandelions littered his fragile body from head to toe in various clumps and lines, places where teeth had pierced or swords had sliced into his Beloved. Places where talons had broken through skin and left raised tissue behind. On the day of his birth, Julian Alfred Pankratz was already covered in another's marks.

Whoever their son belonged with was clearly dangerous and significantly older. Why else would they be so covered with scars? Perhaps they were a murderer, an assassin, a prisoner, or a captive royal. Perhaps they were a _slave._ How horrible for Destiny to damn this child with a life of loneliness and heartbreak, the couple thought.

Julian, however, was fascinated by his flowers. The older he got, the more questions he asked about them. Every once and awhile he’d come racing down the stairs with one limb or another loose from his clothing, eager to show his parents the newest mark. “See how they’ve covered me in flowers! See how strong they are to survive for me!”

His parents didn’t have the heart to let him down. To let him know that normal knights and adventurers didn’t _have_ this many scars. No _normal_ person was waiting to fall in love with Julian. So they hugged him gently and let him preen, unsure of when to let him down. Unsure of when to tell him it wasn’t safe for him to search for his Beloved. Unsure of when to tell him that he may never find true love.

* * *

Geralt stared at the back of his hand in utter confusion. _What the fuck? What_ is _that thing?_ He tried to wipe the smear of blue away but it stuck steadfastly to the side of his knuckle. Squinting down, the Witcher realized that there on his hand, although it was nearly impossible to see clearly, was the outline of a tiny bluebell. “Hmmm.”

“What’s wrong?” Eskel asked, leaning over to see whatever was bothering Geralt about his hand. The white-haired Witcher yanked the offending limb back against his chest almost protectively.

“It’s nothing.”

“You have a mark!” Eskel practically crowed. “Your Beloved has gotten injured for the first time!”

“Don’t sound so excited that Geralt’s one true love is hurt,” Lambert teased, batting his eyes in Geralt’s direction. “We’re supposed to care about their well being. Right, Ger-bear?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Geralt ground out from between his teeth. He stared into the book that lay open on his lap but saw nothing. No words. No sentences. Just the mark on his hand, so bright and blue despite the dim light of the Great Room. It stared silently back at him from its place on his skin. _I belong to someone. Really and truly. Predestined to fit perfectly beside one another._

He tried not to think about it. 

Lambert was still waiting for his first mark to appear and Eskel’s had turned a sad shade of grey after Deirdre disappeared nearly a decade ago. He also tried not to think about who his Beloved might be. He remembered Vesemir’s many lectures on the subject when they’d still been in training:

_“You can never be with them in the way fate intends. Your Beloved is no doubt covered in marks and terrified of who you really are. Or suspicious. Some of them may be nobles, forced into arranged marriages despite your soul marks. Some may die well before your lifetime ends and well before you meet. It is best to let them live their own lives. Many people can experience happiness and fulfillment without ever laying eyes on their Beloved. You must pray that your partners find this happiness.”_

But the little bluebell seemed so lonely on Geralt’s knuckle. So small. 

* * *

Julian sobbed openly in his mother’s arms, holding out his hand to be kissed. “See, my darling?” she asked, pecking the broken skin gently. “It will heal quickly.”

“Will Flower see it?” the boy asked, his sniffles receding.

“Flower?”

“Yeah!” Now the sniffles had turned into a grin. Julian beamed, blue eyes wide and shining with leftover tears, “The person who gives me all the flowers.”

“Perhaps it will appear on them,” Lady Pankratz shrugged. “If it scars over.”

“I can’t wait to meet them! Will they really love me just like you love Father?”

“Oh Julian,” she sighed. “I’m afraid that your dandelions may turn grey before you ever meet your Beloved. They seem to put themselves in a lot of danger. Regularly.”

“I bet they’re a knight. Or a mage.”

“Perhaps.”

 _Or perhaps something worse,_ the concerned mother thought. _Please don’t let it be anything worse than a very careless knight._

* * *

“I love the way you just...sit in the corner and _brood_.” 

“I’m here to drink alone.”

The bard, fresh-faced and grinning, did not take the hint. At all. In fact, the insolent motherfucker took a seat across from the sullen Witcher and continued to babble. Geralt had just seen a bluebell appear on his body earlier in the day and he wasn’t pleased. Despite the monsters he fought every week and the marks no doubt piling up on his Beloved’s body, the bluebells he received on rare occasions made him nervous. His Beloved was clumsy, but not prone to any major injuries. Most of the flowers on Geralt’s body were small or arranged neatly, as if they’d been treated well. This one, though, was strange. A short, twisting arrangement of blooms just to the left of his navel. This wound hadn’t been cleaned as well as the others. Or sewn into place. Or bandaged properly. 

“Good, yeah. Good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance except for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

The Witcher rolled his eyes and gave in. They bantered for a moment, with Geralt correcting the young man about the monster in his song. Then he saw the bard’s eyes resting on his swords. His armor. His hair. As they made eye contact again Jaskier’s face lit up with joy, “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia! Called it!”

The Witcher raised an eyebrow. This bard didn’t have a lick of fear in him. Even when Geralt inhaled deeply and focused his enhanced tracking skills on the young man’s scent, fear was nowhere to be found. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Because I’m a Witcher. I kill things. Monsters, mostly, but what if I wanted to get you alone and kill you just for fun?”

The bard scoffed. “Good luck. If you kill me, my Beloved will kick your ass.”

Geralt tried to ignore the bitterness that crept up inside him at the casual mention of this man’s Beloved. The Witcher was used to being alone on the Path by now, but the longing he felt for his other half was strong. The longer they spent apart the fiercer his yearning grew. Vesemir had tried to prepare him and his brothers for it with lessons and explanations, but the sensation itself was sometimes overwhelming. In this moment, Geralt wanted nothing more than to find his Beloved and keep them safe forever. His voice was low when he spat out, “So you’re being courted by some fierce, handsome knight or Lord. Congratulations.”

“Probably not,” the bard shrugged. “But when I meet them I know they’ll be able to protect me. They’re incredibly strong from what I can tell. My name’s Jaskier, by the way.”

“Hmmm. Geralt.”

“A man of few words. Very sexy. So, have you been on any adventures lately, Geralt the Witcher?”

The white-haired man ignored him, still pondering the bard’s earlier statement. “How can you tell that your Beloved is strong if you’ve never met them?” 

After a moment’s pause, the bard pulled up his sleeve to reveal a smattering of dandelions. Some were pulled into thin lines, others were bunched together like posies. The bard’s skin was absolutely _dappled_ in yellow-gold blooms. 

“I figure that whoever could live through all of this probably fights pretty well.”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you have any?”

“Do you ask to see every stranger's soul marks?”

The bard shook his head. “Not even once. You just seem interesting, that’s all. I figured if we could build some trust then you might tell me a story good enough for adapting into a ballad.”

“So you only want to know about my marks for your songs?”

“No, I’ve just heard a million interesting things about Witchers and I thought it would behoove me to speak with one.”

“Hmmm.”

“I am so incredibly lucky to have so many marks and still see them in color,” the bard said. His smile softened from something bright with exhilaration to something delicate. Like this particular smile could disappear forever at any moment. “I’m so scared that they’ll turn grey soon. I’ve had them since birth. My Beloved must be getting old, now. I may never meet them.”

“You’ve always looked this way?”

“For eighteen long years, yes. And I get new ones all the time. I’m the half-finished tapestry of someone else’s adventures.”

“Alright.”

“Huh?”

“Alright, I’ll show you one.”

Geralt tilted his hand forward, allowing Jaskier to look at the miniscule bluebell on his knuckle. “That’s it?”

“There are a few more,” the Witcher shrugged. “But whoever they are, my Beloved is young. Probably rich. The worst one was stitched up by professionals. It healed straight and clean.”

“Perhaps you could show me later?”

They were interrupted by one of the villagers approaching with a purse. “I have a job for you, Witcher.”

“Hmmm.”

* * *

Geralt hadn’t been expecting the bard to accompany him on the hunt. Or be so brave in the face of the Elves. Or manage to fight back a little as they were captured, interrogated, and released. The Witcher assumed that by the time he killed this village’s goat-eating creature and returned for payment, Jaskier would be making his way towards Velen or Oxenfurt. Somewhere he could perform for larger crowds and make more coin. He definitely wasn’t expecting to enter the tavern after brushing down Roach to find Jaskier alone in his favorite sulking corner. 

_He’s just full of surprises, I guess._ The bard’s blue eyes were wet with tears and he smelled like a heavy mix of ale and misery. _I leave this idiot alone for fifteen minutes and he’s already drunk. And crying._ “My Flower is going to die soon, I know it. They can’t go on like this. I’m sure they're going to die.”

“Who is Flower and what are you going on about?”

“My Flower, the one whose marks cover my skin. They...they…” Jaskier burst into tears. Geralt nervously reached out to pat the younger man’s head. 

“Uhm, it’s okay?”

“It’s not okay! They’re going to die and I’m never going to meet them!”

“Why are you telling _me_ this?”

“You’re right,” Jaskier sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dirty grey shirt. “My apologies, Sir Witcher. I’ll be going up to the room now.”

“May I join you?”

“Huh?”

“Not like...not like that. I just can’t afford my own room right now and I’d really like a bath, if you don’t mind.” Geralt hated imposing on people. He was a Witcher for fuck’s sake, they weren’t meant to ask favors they were meant to _do_ them. But here he stood, asking for favors from a sniveling baby bard. A baby bard who had proven himself rather useful in the field... _No, Geralt. You’re not bringing him with you when you leave Posada. He has his own personal mission._

“Will you tell me a story?” Jaskier asked, interrupting his train of thought.

“Hmmm? Uh, yes. That seems like a fair trade.”

“Alright then,” the bard sighed. “Right this way.”

Jaskier used some of Geralt’s coin to order a hot bath before the two of them made their way up the stairs. “What kind of monster would you like to hear about?”

“Have you ever fought a siren?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d like to hear that one. Sirens seem complicated.”

“They can be. I stuff my ears with wax to keep their songs from distracting me in battle,” Geralt explained. “Even though I’m already resistant to their particular kind of magic.”

The two men continued chatting about the particulars of Geralt’s siren adventure while the bath water was brought up bucket-by-bucket. When the tub had been filled, Jaskier averted his eyes so that Geralt could strip himself down with a semblance of privacy. The Witcher was efficient with removing his armor and sank quickly into the bath and mostly out of sight. “Oh Gods, that’s nice.”

“Has it been awhile?”

“Too long.”

“May I wash your hair?”

“What the fuck?” Geralt couldn’t stop himself from asking. Jaskier shrugged, eyes still aimed firmly at the ceiling. 

“Just thought it might be a nice offer since you’re being so forthcoming about your monster slaying stuff. I’m really good at it, too.”

 _What was the harm? He hated pulling the tangles out himself, anyway._ “Hmmm. Sure.”

Jaskier finally allowed his eyes to rest on the naked figure of the handsome Witcher. His shoulders were broad, his neck was thick, and his arms were _fucking perfect._ Jaskier ached to be held in arms like those. Strong, caring arms that could shelter him from this shit-hole of a world. His silence must have spooked his new traveling companion; Geralt shifted in the tub.

“Are you okay?” the Witcher asked, turning his head to look at Jaskier. The bard’s blue eyes were full of tears again. “Fuck. Did I say something?”

“No, it’s not you. Sorry for all this fuss.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just me being silly. I’m a little drunk.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt watched Jaskier pull an ornate glass bottle from his personal stash and empty a bit out onto his palm. “What’s that?”

“It’s soap made specially for hair,” the bard explained, lathering up his hands. “I hope it doesn’t smell too strong for you.”

“It’s nice.”

“Good.”

Jaskier worked the soap through Geralt’s thick white hair, making sure to clean every inch. He scrubbed three weeks worth of grime away, revealing a silvery shimmer that hadn’t been there before. Once it was as clean as possible, Jaskier braided the soft strands back into a half-ponytail. He did it absentmindedly, allowing the bottom layer of hair to fall in a curtain against Geralt’s neck and shoulders. _Gods he’s handsome. I hope Flower looks this good after a fight._

As he was leaning forward to reach for a towel, Jaskier noticed something about their arms. A long, thick line of pink scar tissue ran from Geralt’s forearm to just below his elbow; Jaskier had a matching line of dandelions printed on his skin. His gaze flickered to another visible scar on Geralt’s upper thigh, a thin half-circle of uneven scratches. He knew that he had a posy of dandelions in the same place. In a millisecond the pieces clicked together for him. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Hmmm?”

“Flower!” 

“Jas-” Geralt couldn’t even finish the bard’s name. A pair of thin arms had been thrown around his torso from behind and Jaskier’s face was buried firmly in the crook of his neck. “What’s wrong, Jaskier?”

“It’s you! You’re my Flower!”

The Witcher froze. The bard felt Geralt’s muscles tensing up and released the Witcher’s shoulders from his embrace. “But you’re a traveling bard. How are all your wounds so well healed?”

“I may have some noble parentage as you guessed.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Geralt was shocked. Jaskier made his way around the side of the tub, reaching out for his Flower’s hand and raising Geralt up from the water. Slowly, unhurriedly, Jaskier stripped off his own clothes. Every line on Geralt’s skin matched up with a cluster of flowers on the bard. They were a completed set; one a mass of criss-crossed lines and the other a living garden of dandelions. 

“We _belong_ together. We were _made_ for each other.”

“I’m a Witcher. My life is not an easy one.”

“No _shit,_ asshole! I came out of the womb looking like a fucking wedding bouquet! Nobody else on the Continent has this much awareness about the dangers of your Witcher Path. But Geralt,” the bard used the tip of his pointer finger to raise the Witcher’s chin. He forced his Flower to make eye contact, “I have loved you from the moment I knew what these marks meant. I have prayed for your safety every night of my life for as long as I could speak. My parents warned me never to seek you out; that you could be a dangerous murderer or a nobleman’s captive. But I loved you too much. I love each and every blossom you’ve drawn onto my skin. As I live and breathe before you, Geralt of Rivia, I am yours and you are _mine._ ”

With no words left to speak, the Witcher surged forward and claimed Jaskier’s mouth with his. He cupped the bard’s soft jaw with his warm, calloused hand and held the younger man close. Neither cared about the water dripping off Geralt’s body. Neither could be asked to give a damn about the fact that they were both standing in the middle of a shitty rented room, totally naked. There was only Jaskier and Geralt, holding each other and kissing like the world could crash down around them at any moment.

“I was told you’d never want me,” Geralt gasped, finally pulling away. Jaskier’s heart broke when he saw tears pooling in the Witcher’s golden eyes, “I was told to keep myself away from you but I have yearned for you _always.”_

“Ah, there are your words.”

“And they’re all for you.”

“Then you’re happy with me?”

“How could I be anything else? You are my Beloved, Jaskier.”

“And you are mine, Geralt of Rivia.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might attempt a second chapter containing smut. Idunno. It's really up to y'all.
> 
> Let me know if you'd like chapter two and we'll see what happens!


End file.
